


Stories

by beef_wonder3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beef_wonder3/pseuds/beef_wonder3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s world is full of tales, narratives and sagas. Sherlock’s life is full of stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Stories

Sherlock had always liked stories. Mummy often read to him when he was younger, stories about royalty attending dull parties but enduring to find a suitable spouse. Father read him stories too, things from the paper, dogs that road skateboard and budgerigars that whistled God Save the Queen and other silly ones like that. Mycroft was always the one that read Sherlock the interesting stories from the paper, the mysteries and scandals. He also read Sherlock the stories in Mummy's book that Mummy wouldn't read him, where the wolves eat everybody or the babies are stolen. 

Soon enough Sherlock had learned to read by himself, well ahead of his peer group of course, and he read as many stories as he could get his hands on. That was when he had started to notice that people told stories as well, not with their voices but silently, subtly. 

Mummy always wore her blue dress when she was annoyed at Father, the dress he didn't like at all, with the way his face pinched like Mycroft's had when Sherlock hugged him with muddy clothes on. Sherlock could see when Mr. Jacobs, the head gardener for the Holmes Estate, had gone to the pub, but only drank coffee. And that Mycroft's tutor, Miss Poppet, has been kissing a man that worked in a bakery, which was apparently a secret, which Sherlock didn’t understand how, when it was so very obvious.  
He’d asked Mycroft about it, about the stories people told and Mycroft had smiled and told Sherlock that they were more observant that most people. 'They' like it was a special secret only he and his big brother shared. Sherlock had liked that. 

As children do, Sherlock had gotten older, his skills sharper. People still told him stories, oh they had plenty to say but they were all frightfully dull. The same old thing over and over again, and then they got upset when Sherlock told them so, like it was his fault they were boring. 

Years went by; the everyday stories never stopped, never got any duller but the mysteries, the crimes, the murders, ah now those are stories waiting for Sherlock to tell, complicated tangles of string waiting to be thinned out and laid apart. Stories that don't ever make sense in the beginning but once Sherlock is through with them, the details are as clear as day for everybody to see. 

But what the most interesting thing of all is; is that those bundles and tangles aren't Sherlock’s favourite stories. They are his passion, his drive, his work, yes, but they aren't his favourites. 

No, Sherlock’s favourite stories rare, so very rare, and quiet. 

Stories of horror and fear. Stories of joy and gladness. Stories of friendship and bravery. 

Sherlock’s favourite stories were John’s stories. 

The ones John would whisper to him in the dark of the bedroom, curled up together, warm and dozy. The ones John would choke out after a nightmare, Sherlock holding him as close and as tight as he dared, meagre comfort for a pain not shared. Sherlock’s favourite stories were the ones John told him, after a memory struck him with a smile and a laugh, the living room bright and cheery. The stories John told when they ate dinner, mentioning this friend and that. 

There were a hundred different stories John would tell Sherlock. Some good, some bad, some funny and some painful. 

And each and every single one of them was Sherlock’s favourite story.


End file.
